On My Own
by almbookbuyer
Summary: When The Doctor goes to surprise River at home, he finds that she's been dealing with being ill all on her own... And she hasn't been dealing well at all... Sick!River


**This little fic was inspired by a particularly strange and nasty bug that I managed to get a few weeks ago. It was the first time I was sick away from home, and I ran on the assumption hat it wasn't that bad. Wrong. Looking back, I realize a lot of what happened was because of full on delirium from the fever I was consistently running for 4 days. So that's… nice. Thought I'd write about it *shrugs and still doesn't buy a thermometer***

 **Anyway, here we go!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who.**

He appeared outside her cottage with a bottle of sparkling grape juice (it was like wine, but without all that weird taste). She was a professor these days. Of archeology. He never thought much of archeologists, but he couldn't help but enjoy hearing her speak about what she loved.

He'd come to surprise her. They hadn't seen each other in months. For once, he knocked on the door. It felt right when he was surprising her. Also, he didn't want her to shoot him.

She didn't answer.

Confused, he knocked again.

No reply.

Maybe she didn't hear the TARDIS? Maybe she didn't know it was him. He entered the home (via a key she'd given him) into the cozy den. There was a mug set on the coffee table half empty and cold. A blanket was strewn across the couch.

"River?" he called. He put the sparkling juice next to the mug and walked to the mouth of the hallway. "River, it's me."

She emerged from her bedroom wearing a robe. Despite him knowing immediately something was wrong, she gave him a wicked grin and said her usual, "Hello, sweetie."

He didn't respond as he tended to. He was too focused.

River's hair was unkempt. Not in the way it would be if someone were to have a lazy day, but as if she hadn't been out of the house in weeks. Her face was pale, nearly gray. And even wearing the robe, he could tell she was thinner than the last time he'd seen her.

She noticed his odd behavior and blinked wearily at him. "What is it, sweetie? Is everything alright?"

He walked to her carefully; she looked frail. "I should be asking you that. Are you ill?"

"No," she said with seemingly legitimate confusion. "Why?"

He reached out and took her hand. It was clammy. "How about you come to the TARDIS and we can make sure… You look… unwell."

That was an understatement. Compared to her usual warm skin tone, her well cared for appearance, and her beautiful full figure, River looked to be barely there. The Doctor didn't think about the not-wine in the den anymore. He didn't care about a date. There was something seriously wrong.

She looked at him with a thoughtful expression. "I'm fine, dear. What would give you the impression that I'm not?" Then she perked up. "Oh! Is it because of the hair? You do realize it's barely morning, do you not? I was asleep."

"But-"

"If it bothers you, I'll fix it. You'll just have to give me moment."

"I'm not bothered by your hair." With his eyes wide, he cupped his hands around her cheeks. Did they feel warm? "You're pale, River. And you've lost weight."

"Have I?" the feigned innocence seemed to be wearing thin with their eyes fixed on one another. He could tell that something was definitely off.

He didn't look away. "River, what's wrong?"

She blinked at him then pulled away and walked into her room. He followed her. She sat heavily on her bed and looked up at him in silence. It took him a moment to realize this was as close to an answer as he was going to get.

Three layers of blankets were on the bed, though not neatly. They looked like they must have been kicked off and snatched back up at least a dozen times. Two half-empty glasses of water sat on the nightstand with a few empty mugs. A facecloth hung limply off the handle of the nightstand drawer. A blazer and pair of black heels were dropped lazily onto the floor.

"You have been ill," he said.

"Not anymore," she said.

He frowned at her and began walking around the room. He then entered the ensuite bathroom and looked in there, finding only a suspiciously placed pillow at the top of the carpet.

He went back to where she was sitting. Her eyes were downcast. She looked exhausted.

"No thermometer," he said. "And no meds."

She shrugged. "Didn't ever need them before."

"You didn't go out to get them?"

She hesitated.

He said, "Why not?"

"I couldn't."

"Why not?"

She hesitated again, but did manage to answer before he cut in. "I couldn't stand for that long."

He ran a hand through his hair anxiously and paced to the other side of the room where a mirror hung over her dresser. A pile of paperwork sat atop it, clearly not done.

He turned back to her. "Why didn't you call me? I could've helped."

She made a face. "I'm fine. I got through it."

He crossed his arms. "When was the last time you ate?"

River paused.

The Doctor turned and headed out of the room.

She called after him, but he kept walking. Down the hall, into the den, and then into the kitchen. He looked around, desperate to see unwashed dishes in the sink, a takeout box, even an open box of crackers. Please have eaten _something_.

Finding nothing, he turned back around. As he expected, she was standing in the doorway. Well, it was more like leaning on the doorframe, but same difference.

Her robe hung open, and she wore a white tank top and a long skirt. Clearly, she hadn't changed since coming home- When had she gotten sick? Days ago? A week? Two weeks? He could see the ridges of ribs beneath her shear tank.

He gave her sad, pleading eyes. "When did you get sick?"

She looked down at the floor. "I dunno."

"When?"

She looked up. "I honestly don't know. I lost track. I was tired, and I couldn't think straight."

He threw up his hands. "You were too sick to stand, to eat, or to think, but you could handle it on your own?!"

She looked down again and shrugged.

He sighed and began opening cabinets. "Go back to bed. Try to sleep."

"I'm tired of my bed," she said with distaste.

"Well go rest elsewhere then. I'm making you something, and you're going to eat it. And then, you're going to rest properly. And I'm going to make sure you're fully well again before I leave. Oh, and there's juice in the den. Go have some. At least it's something to keep you going for the twenty minutes it'll take me to make soup."

She scowled at his turned back. He could feel it. "You act as though I'm a child."

He spun to face her. "You treat yourself like you don't need to be cared for, but that's just not true! And I'm here whenever you need me to help you, and you refuse it! You're ill, and I'm going to help, because clearly you won't help yourself. Go lay down. I'll bring you soup and cold water and some juice."

Her eyes were wide at his outburst, but she was too tired and weak to argue. She nodded and padded unsteadily into the den where he watched her curl up on the couch.

He turned back to the cabinets and kept pulling things from their interiors. He was going to make her the best soup she'd ever had.


End file.
